


Christmas Compliments

by ThereminVox



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: After finishing this, I’m convinced my writing has embarked down a steep and steady slope of regression.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/You, Arthur/reader, Joker/Reader, Joker/You
Kudos: 15





	Christmas Compliments

**Author's Note:**

> After finishing this, I’m convinced my writing has embarked down a steep and steady slope of regression.

* * *

“And don’t forget the plans we have scheduled tonight.”

Bewilderment tickles Arthur’s face with a subtle arch of his cyan brow. Peering over a hunched shoulder, he bores his groggy gaze into the back of your skull, drumming duet of his knuckles rapping against weathered marble, momentarily ceased.

“ _Plans_?”, he questions, tonelessly.

Stilling your occupied hands at the oven, you turn to return a playful glare at your beloved fiancé, planting the seed of confusion further into his painted frown when you raise a mitted hand for closer inspection, making a gesture with the left index to imitate a reading from the palm.

“Yep!” Sarcasm scarcely contained.

“Says it right here.” For good measure, you make a show of pointing said index near the mitt’s hem, a list of written elements made evident only to you.

“ **21:45:** _Pillow fight_.”

Arthur dislodges himself from the kitchen counter, assuming full stature. Striding to you with a lazy smirk, you don’t resist when he makes a swift unveiling of the warm mitt from your still hovering hand. When he advances further to wrap his arms in a sly embrace, restraint yields when you move to press your now naked hand against his clothed chest.

Pulsing behind with hazardous delay, the stove was sizzling with a remainder of hearty breakfast aroma. In response to your rejection of affection, Arthur simply settles his grip to your apron-clad hips, rubbing mindless circles, caring naught to get burned by the seething cuisine. There was yet another appetiser his wolfish grin was famished for.

“I’m not sure what’s more unsettling…” he drawls. “You using military time…” You suppress a smile when his face draws closer, planting a gelid Eskimo kiss. “Or the fact that you’ve scheduled a pillow fight for us.” Raising a brow in silent suspicion.

The accent of his philtrum scar puckers in jest. Between the oven’s beeping and Arthur’s sudden distance from your person, you hadn’t a chance to respond in kind, properly scolding him for nearly sending you both ablaze, if not-so-subtly intending to make his meal inedible. Try as he might, that dwarfish stomach of his was getting a growth spurt, whether he digested or not.

From where you were standing, the underfed belly seemed already in the throes of feasting. You couldn’t help but snort when you see your beloved now stood in the middle of the living room, hip thrusting the air, lithe figure illuminated by a television programme left unattended.

An inattention that almost translated as careless relief of duty from a fresh batch of ‘Joker’ cookies made to complement the Eggs Benedict you had prepared. Taking off your right mitt and turning off the oven and stove, you turn to observe the angles and curves of his lissome figure, committing these motions to memory, however recurrent and common they may be. As a vehicle of mileage, the mind could never be trusted to endure the fleeting image of beauty in its natural, untouched state.

Thus, you interrupt the saint’s purity, begrudgingly. Marring the pristine landscape with a quizzical caress. Your silent stroll to the dancefloor whispers, ‘It takes two to tango.’ And wasn’t he born to be a terpsichorean? So why was he departing the rhythm now, lanking about, untrained in the dexterous art of ballet? Was the gore from a recent sequence of hasty murders disrupting his flow?

Ruddy the lips that purse in greeting. The fledging werewolf’s teeth flashing to a predatory grin when you approach with muted appeal at the helm. You take his hand and lead him to waltz in the quaint expanse. You submit to your baser urges, fingers clutching at his shirt with vise grip, the teal of its patterned expanse peeling slow to reveal apricot flesh.

“Oh, because _you’re_ the Fred Astaire, right? When was the last time you danced? And no, prancing away from the occasional rodent or roach doesn’t count.”

His acid green locks unkempt, suit jacket divested, goofy grin plastered in rouge. Unearthly in masked presence. Peerless in the act of joy, without assisted medication. Now, simply a man adorned in primary colours. Fearless in the natural performance of his deviant being. This was the man you had entrusted your heart to. A lucrative token of acceptance for the impoverished souls clutching empty for the remedy that repels rejection.

“ _Ho, ho, ho_ , Mr. Grinch.” In the midst of dizzying twirls and swimming vision lost in love at first sight, snow was falling. A pair of young lovers’ eyes twinkle alight, sparking life to a tree adorned by ornaments. Spirited by the soul of altruism spreading gifts beneath.

“None of that matters right now.” For a brief spell, your lids fall heavy. A calm wave of sedated content, contagious.

“So, tell me, Santa-“

Before you could finish, Arthur wrinkles his nose in mock disgust, rumbling a groan of displeasure.

“ _Ugh_ , don’t call me that. There is _nothing_ sexy about Santa. No amount of milk and semen-infused cookies will change that.”

A breathy chuckle slips from your lips.

“Is that your not-so-discreet way of telling me to shove those cookies up Randall’s necrotic ass? Because honestly, they’re probably too half-baked for either of us. No thanks to you.”

And in that toasty instant, the dance had concluded with a bow from both cheeky parties. The salivating aroma of encroaching confectionery submits keenly to a bittersweet scent.

“You know I have a show to attend.”

The grave monotony of his tone secured a hint of Arthur’s temporary departure. Joker had often been the favoured of either.

“Another host to give early servings of coal.”

Fortunately, not deprived a modicum of misplaced humour to stabilise the dichotomy of ego.

“ _Another_ talk show?” You sigh inwardly. Audible enough for Arthur to heed with a snaggletooth lopside. “Haven’t you exhausted your voracious taste for revenge against mediocre comedians?”

Arthur makes hurried steps to the kitchen, whistling a quiet tune, nimble fingers reaching eager for the tray of clown cookies.

“‘Revenge’ is not a word to be taken lightly, my dear. I prefer the term ‘justice’.”

Leering at you with a spiked swell of adoration, he savours the delicious taste of your creation, taking his time to chew and make prominent the features of his chiseled face with each strain of muscle in orgasmic food rapture. Although, he wouldn’t readily admit it, it was always quite a pleasure to delight in your culinary crafts. You were always so generous towards him, there was often a guilty streak dominating his otherwise desirous need to praise you for being the archangel you are.

“If only I weren’t so bewitched by your charm…”

You scoff in a manner akin to disbelief.

“ _You_ ? In love with with _me_?” Chuckling nervously, you turn a heel to feign interest to pale clouds offering their lewd release to the citizens of Gotham.

“Imagine…”

Peppermint and eggnog accosts your olfaction with tendrils of pleasant chill caressing the shoulders, ghosting down to hug your waist in a viper’s embrace.

“ _Oh, kitten_.” His breath is potent with subdued emotion. Leaning back into wiry chest, you listen and synchronise the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“No need to imagine…” Softly, he mutters, breathless and energised. A child who keeps the spirit alive with infectious conviction. Too hyper to rest the night of Christmas Eve.

“ _Not when I’m living the reality._ ”


End file.
